


the devil is a bagman

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [7]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Human Trafficking (Discussed), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mafia - Italian/Korean/Russian, Male Slash, Pseudo-quantum physics, Semi-Explicit sexual content, Violence, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yamamoto barely has a chance to activate his own flames and pull its sword out of its sheath before he’s attacked by one of the Jopok. More seem to come streaming in from the back door of the bar, like they’d been waiting for this fight. It’s clear that this has been part of Lee’s plan since the beginning, and a sick feeling pools in Yamamoto’s stomach as he realizes how outnumbered they are.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Korean gang members that ambushed Yamamoto and Ryohei are now willing to meet. Gokudera proves to be an able politician, but a fight was bound to break out sooner or later.</p><p>[Part of an ongoing, post-TYL divergent AU arc]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the devil is a bagman

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
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> A million thanks to M, who peeked over this for me and assured me it didn't suck as badly as I feared. She's super-awesome!! \o/
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> Part 6/? of "Across the Universe" series
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:** This story is part of a prequel arc to "dive" (see the "first" part in this series--AO3 doesn't let us have a "part 0"). Not sure how this might be as a stand-alone fic, so I would recommend reading the previous sections leading up to this story.
> 
> This was also originally posted as 2 parts, but I have combined them here.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** strong language (my Gokudera tends to be pretty foul-mouthed), semi-explicit M/M sexual content, pseudo-science in which I take a page (or several) out of Amano's book, mentions of children involved in human trafficking, injuries, awkward arguments, LOTS OF ACTION this installment...
> 
> RECOMMENDED LISTENING (part 1):  
> ♪ [have you got it in you](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbDVA5nJW2Y) { imogen heap }

Gokudera is chain-smoking again.  
  
Either he’s been doing it for a while, or Yamamoto hasn’t noticed him chain-smoking—not since before his time in the Russians’ hands all those months ago. It’s either a sign of yet another piece of normalcy returning to their lives, or something’s bothering Gokudera.  
  
By the way Gokudera’s glaring at Yamamoto as he watches Gokudera viciously stub out a cigarette butt on their balcony, Yamamoto banks on the latter. He offers a sheepish grin and turns his attention back to the dinner he’s preparing for the both of them, in the hopes that Gokudera won’t slink off to the lab before he manages to finish making dinner.  
  
To Yamamoto’s delight, he smells the lingering cigarette smoke on Gokudera’s jacket just before Gokudera comes up behind him, peering over his shoulder. (Delight at Gokudera joining him—not the cigarette smell.)  
  
“What the hell are you making this time?” Gokudera asks.  
  
“It’s gnocchi,” Yamamoto says proudly, beaming.  
  
Gokudera scratches the back of his head for a moment before his eyes widen. “Oh, you mean _gnocchi_ ,” he says, suddenly. Yamamoto grins, but he’s bristling a little at the correction. “It smells great, even if you don’t know how to pronounce it correctly.”  
  
Yamamoto turns his shoulder so that he’s blocking Gokudera’s view. “Who says I’m making any for you?” he asks sullenly.  
  
“I know you eat a lot, but that’s an awfully large amount even for just one idiot,” Gokudera comments.  
  
Yamamoto grins, swatting Gokudera’s fingers away from the pan. “If you want some, you’ll have to work for it. You can make yourself useful by chopping tomatoes,” he says, nudging Gokudera in the direction of the cutting board.  
  
“Che,” Gokudera scoffs, but complies anyway. Yamamoto grins.  
  
Moments like these—simple, home-making moments—always make Yamamoto feel a little more at ease. It’s like he doesn’t have to worry about anything during times like these, because the one person he’d want to protect above all else is right in front of him, safe and whole. (That isn’t to say he wouldn’t protect Tsuna or other family members with his life—Tsuna is his best friend, after all—but Gokudera is… different. Special. _His_.)  
  
Dinner leads to a few glasses of wine and dessert, and cleanup leads to… well.  
  
Gokudera will surely blame it on the wine later, but for now, he’s running his tongue up Yamamoto’s recently-bared chest with his bare legs wrapped around Yamamoto’s waist, while the Rain Guardian carries him to the bedroom. Yamamoto nearly trips over the side of the bed, depositing Gokudera on his back, his unbuttoned shirt falling open.  
  
Yamamoto grins lewdly, and Gokudera scowls up at him (though it has no bite behind it). Gokudera sits up and puts his palms against Yamamoto’s cheeks, pulling him in for a desperate kiss that involves way more tongue and teeth than usual. Yamamoto tries to pull away so he can drop his pants, but Gokudera bites his lower lip possessively, snorting against Yamamoto’s cheek just before he hooks his fingers in Yamamoto’s belt loops for him.  
  
When Gokudera’s teeth finally release his lip, Yamamoto opens his mouth to laugh at Gokudera’s eagerness, but then Gokudera’s lips are engulfing the hardened head of his cock and his breath catches in his throat before the laugh can come out.  
  
“Haya _aaah_ —”  
  
Yamamoto’s fingers are tangled into Gokudera’s hair as his head bobs expertly. _This is bliss_ , Yamamoto thinks, when his brain isn’t torn between pleasure and ecstasy. Gokudera brings him to the brink before letting him go, pulling Yamamoto forward for another fierce kiss as he finishes the job with his hands. He slumps forward purposely when he’s done, pinning Gokudera to the bed with his heavier body.  
  
“ _Geroff_ ,” Gokudera mutters into his chest.  
  
“Mm, but it’s so comfortable,” Yamamoto says, smiling and snuggling in closer. Gokudera’s hard against his thighs, though, and it makes his spent cock twitch just thinking about it—  
  
“Takeshi…” Gokudera’s voice is husky, tight.  
  
Yamamoto’s smile grows into a full-blown leer, and he presses a kiss into Gokudera’s neck. “Patience, love—I’ll take care of it,” he promises.  
  
Gokudera tries pushing him off again. Despite Gokudera’s recent bulk—he’s been working out relentlessly since he recovered—Yamamoto still outweighs him by a good amount.  
  
They haven’t made love so intensely in a long time, Yamamoto realizes after they’ve both pleasured each other more times than he can count. It’s a welcome change from the intensity of political issues that they’ve been dealing with lately—and he’s actually somewhat surprised at Gokudera, who’s doing more initiating than consenting.  
  
Exhausted but pleasantly satiated, Yamamoto leans back against pillows propped up against their headboard, Gokudera curled up against his side as they watch the sun slowly peek its way through their curtains. There have been a lot of memorable moments, but Yamamoto especially savors this one—it’s just so _comfortable_ , the way Gokudera fits against him, the way they complement each other. He’s simply content, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.  
  
Eventually, Gokudera rolls over and sits up, peering at the window irritably. Reaching for the nightstand next to his side of the bed, he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, lazily taking a drag as he leans back against the pillows next to Yamamoto.  
  
“What time is it?” he asks.  
  
Yamamoto rolls over to peer at the alarm clock on his side of the bed. “A little past six,” he replies. “We don’t have to be anywhere until tonight, so we could sleep in if we wanted…”  
  
Gokudera snorts, smoke coming out his nose in a puff. “Suggesting that we ditch work today, hm?”  
  
“Of course!” Yamamoto laughs. “Why wouldn’t we?”  
  
Another long drag, and Gokudera replies, “Because it’s _necessary_ —oh, don’t give me that look, you big lug. I was going to call in with a headache anyway. How much wine did I drink last night, anyway?”  
  
Yamamoto beams. “Not enough to make excuses,” he says happily.  
  
Gokudera stubs the cigarette in the ash tray on his nightstand before he snags one of the dropped pillows on the ground and roughly smacks Yamamoto's grinning face with it.  
  
“Idiot,” he mutters.  
  
“But you love me anyway,” Yamamoto says with his brightest grin, once he moves the pillow out of his face.  
  
“Damned if I do,” Gokudera snaps back, but at Yamamoto’s feigned sullen look, he leans over and plants a smoky kiss on his forehead. “Why I’m in love with such a big smiling idiot, I have no idea…”  
  
The words warm Yamamoto straight to his toes, so he leans over and wraps an arm around Gokudera’s shoulders, pushes him back down into the bed and leans over him with a lewd grin.  
  
“Again? _Really_?” Gokudera squawks, and then sighs.  
  
Yamamoto continues grinning.  
  
(He’s too content in the moment to push Gokudera for anything more than sex right now anyway. If it’s really that important, it’ll come up again later.)  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s no wonder Yamamoto and Ryohei accidentally stumbled across Jopok territory the last time, Yamamoto muses. There’s a small pocket of rough urban alleyways that makes for a good shortcut, going between the Vongola main estate in Namimori and Cavallone’s private Tokyo estate. Unfortunately, half of that shortcut is firmly under Jopok control—and it’s hard to see the signs when they’re unexpected. Bits and pieces of graffiti, hints of a mix of kanji and Korean hangul woven into the simple designs mar the walls near the main alleyways where Yamamoto was injured. They’re not so hard to spot when looking for them, though, and it makes Yamamoto wonder how many others have accidentally wandered into this territory without thinking twice.  
  
Yamamoto stays quiet as he watches the alleyway from his vantage point, several floors up in a Vongola-controlled business high-rise. He isn’t worried so much about being seen, but rather about being disturbed by the usual business that goes on in the building. This upcoming meeting is important—he knows this well, regardless of Gokudera’s constant emphasis of the point—and Yamamoto doesn’t want to waste any little bit of information that could help protect his friends ( _family_ ). Lost focus could be lost information (so Gokudera’s voice in his head tells him), and so Yamamoto doesn’t lose focus.  
  
Among the throng of pedestrians, there are only a few suspicious-looking guys lingering around near the alleyway—and of those, only a handful has the telltale tattoos. Yamamoto pays the closest attention to those, watching for any sort of movement, hand signals, who they let pass, who they talk to… He isn’t getting a whole lot to work with, even though he’s been watching for nearly three hours. Eventually, they disappear into the alleyways and out of Yamamoto’s range of vision.  
  
With a sigh, he drops his binoculars and scratches at the back of his head, opting to stretch for just a few moments. He checks his watch and debates using the restroom, but movement at the alleyway has him grabbing at his binoculars again.  
  
It’s a truck—not a very large one, and it’s a bit old and well-used. Several Jopok members swarm the back of the truck, a few standing watch and looking around in agitation while the rest unload large crates out of the back of the truck. The ones on lookout get in the faces of a few curious pedestrians, who quickly walk in the opposite direction.  
  
The crates aren’t large enough to hold humans, Yamamoto notes in the back of his mind—but what would be in the crates? A knot forms in his stomach as he considers the possibilities, and decides that the timing of this truck’s arrival and their scheduled meeting isn’t a good one.  
  
Not that he has any more concrete evidence than a gut feeling, but trusting his instincts has kept him alive so far. He adjusts the zoom on his binoculars to see if he can decipher the writing on the sides of the crates that are rapidly disappearing into the alley.  
  
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and with one hand, he scrambles for it and holds it up to his ear without tearing his eyes away from the binoculars.  
  
“Yamamoto,” he says quietly, distractedly.  
  
 _“Have you found anything?”_ Gokudera’s voice is on the other end of the line, sounding worn.  
  
“I can call you back in fifteen with an answer,” Yamamoto replies. “What’s wrong?”  
  
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and then, _“Tsuna’s sick with the stomach flu. I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to go to the meeting with the Jopok—we should go without him.”_  
  
Having been through a nasty stomach bug recently himself, Yamamoto winces in sympathy. “Yeah, haha, he really should rest, then.” His binoculars finally focus in on the words on the crates, and Yamamoto clenches his teeth. “Shit.”  
  
 _“What is it?”_  
  
“I need to see someone this afternoon, if we’re going to make this meeting happen properly,” Yamamoto says. “And yeah, I agree that it would be best if Tsuna doesn’t join us—even if he’s feeling better by tomorrow.”  
  
 _“What are you seeing?”_  
  
“I’ll tell you later,” Yamamoto replies. “I should be back by dinner.”  
  
 _“Che—you better not be doing anything stupid, you idiot.”_  
  
It has become Gokudera’s typical farewell, whenever they’re on the phone. With a grin, Yamamoto bids a soft goodbye (resisting the urge to add any endearments— _that_ would only get him an earful, haha, because Gokudera still hates being fawned over while working). Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he takes another close look at the writing on the crates.  
  
It’s a weapons company—one that Yamamoto knows well, because they’re on Gokudera’s list of companies that are currently invested in elemental flame technology. The meeting tomorrow might very well turn ugly, fast, he realizes.  
  
Biting his lip, Yamamoto resolves to ask Gokudera about the company later; once he makes sure they have adequate reinforcements at the meeting tomorrow. Just because Tsuna won’t be there doesn’t mean that they can let their guard down. Maybe he’ll have one of his subordinates come by here later to continue taking pictures, because now that he knows where these Jopok typically unload their cargo, there might be more information they can glean to make sure they’ve got a case to make. Yoshida is waiting for him downstairs, and Yamamoto’s pretty sure the man keeps a camera on hand.  
  
He’s seen enough here for now, though—he puts the binoculars back in their case, slings his wrapped sword back over his shoulder, and exits the building. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he hesitates, and then dials the number of one of the only people who still scares the _bejeezus_ out of him. Gokudera might yell at him for his decision later, but Yamamoto knows he’s doing the right thing.  
  
… Maybe.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto swallows thickly around the lump in his throat as he follows Kusakabe through the wooden halls of the traditional-style home of one Hibari Kyoya. It doesn’t matter that Yamamoto knows he’s strong in his own right—a skilled Mafiosi and occasional assassin, even—but Hibari… well. There aren’t many who can match Hibari’s ferociousness. Yamamoto knows he can’t.  
  
He steels his resolve anyway, because he knows they’ll likely need Hibari’s assistance at the meeting with the Jopok tomorrow. Especially if they plan on using the weapons in the boxes Yamamoto saw earlier that day.  
  
Kusakabe stops before a shoji at the end of the hallway, kneeling and announcing himself and “a guest,” he puts surprisingly delicately.  
  
“I don’t have time to speak to herbivores.”  
  
Kusakabe shifts on his knees, glancing over his shoulder at Yamamoto. Blinking for a moment, Yamamoto schools his features into a calm (but firm) smile. He should expect as much from Hibari.  
  
“He’s from Vongola,” Kusakabe offers.  
  
“I told you, Kusakabe, I don’t have time—”  
  
“Hibari, it’s me,” Yamamoto interjects. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”  
  
There’s a moment of complete quiet, and then some shuffling around before the door slides open to reveal a set of unamused dark eyes.  
  
“The baseball nerd,” Hibari says flatly. “Tetsuya, the next time you bring such boring people around, I _will_ bite you to death.”  
  
Yamamoto grins uneasily, but at least Hibari isn’t ignoring him completely. “I have a proposition for you,” he says. The glare aimed at him narrows further, so he adds, “It involves violence?”  
  
“He mentioned that the Vongola are trying to take care of a human trafficking ring on Namimori turf,” Kusakabe says.  
  
That seems to grab Hibari’s attention very quickly, as the glare shifts to Kusakabe (but somehow doesn’t seem quite so threatening). “Who is involved?”  
  
“A Korean gang,” Yamamoto replies. “They’ve agreed to meet with us tomorrow to talk it over, but we don’t think they’re going to talk cleanly and will likely fight us on it.”  
  
Hibari seems to think about it for a moment, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gives Kusakabe a withering look before he turns and slams the shoji shut.  
  
“See this herbivore out of here, Tetsuya,” floats through the paper covering of the shoji.  
  
Kusakabe doesn’t seem fazed at all by the rough tone—he calmly stands, motioning for Yamamoto to follow him. Yamamoto starts to protest, because this conversation didn’t go at all the way he intended it to go, but Kusakabe stops him before he even has a chance to open his mouth.  
  
“What time is the meeting tomorrow?” he asks.  
  
“Oh. Ah, it’s at ten in the morning,” Yamamoto replies. Then it dawns on him that he’d essentially gotten as much of an agreement out of Hibari as he ever would. “We’re meeting in a semi-neutral zone in a bar that’s technically between our territories—but the Vongola faction is meeting by the Namimori bus stop first since it’s close by.”  
  
Kusakabe grunts and nods slightly.  
  
“Will he be there?” Yamamoto asks.  
  
“Eh, he’ll show up if he wants to. Boss is hard to predict like that. But I think he’s interested,” Kusakabe replies, offering a half-smile in encouragement. “He didn’t threaten to kill you.”  
  
“Haha, I guess that’s true!” Yamamoto laughs. “Well, hopefully we’ll see him tomorrow.”  
  
Kusakabe waves him off, and Yamamoto heads back to the main estate feeling a little better about the meeting the next day. If anything, they’ll have one hell of a backup.  
  
  
  
  
  
The bar they meet at is old and worn, with tears in the seat cushions and scratches and dents all over the tables. But it’s surprisingly clean, despite the thick haze of cigarette and cigar smoke hanging heavily in the air. Yamamoto keeps his hands in his pockets as he follows Gokudera quietly to a curtained door at the back of the bar, with a flickering lighted sign reading _No Admittance_.  
  
The bar’s owner is a short, squat man who eyes them warily as they stroll through his bar, though he doesn’t make a move from behind the counter, where he’s wiping down clean glasses with a white towel. While the owner doesn’t have official affiliations with any particular gang or mafia family, he seems to have his own operation going on, serving as a complete neutral zone for opposing parties to meet. He has his own handful of thugs—serving as mean-looking, gargantuan bouncers—to make sure that these meetings don’t get out of hand.  
  
All in all, this isn’t a bad place to meet, Yamamoto thinks approvingly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the Jopok were sincerely making an effort to smooth over the rift that their attack on Yamamoto and Ryohei had caused between their two groups. But after what he’d seen, he has a hard time believing otherwise. From what he can tell by the way Gokudera carries himself, Gokudera is likely thinking the same. The Storm Guardian had been rather upset by the news Yamamoto brought with him about the illegal weapons the Jopok were smuggling into their territory.  
  
“Park-san,” Gokudera greets solemnly once they’ve entered the back room, offering a firm handshake with the Jopok’s boss.  
  
“Gokudera-san,” the Jopok boss, Park Young-Soo, wears a wary smile and stiffens his back as he shakes Gokudera’s hand. He’s one of the few Koreans that proudly chooses to retain his Korean name in Japan—one of the reasons his gang so heavily consists of strong Korean nationalists. “I am sorry to see your boss was unable to join us today.”  
  
“He is unfortunately ill,” Gokudera replies, seemingly apologetic. “I will be acting as his intermediary today, I apologize for the inconvenience.”  
  
Park nods. “It’s understandable, having the Vongola’s _sotto capo_ in his stead—we shall proceed as planned, then.” He motions for the guardians to sit.  
  
Behind Yamamoto, he can feel Ryohei fidgeting as he looks for a seat (Ryohei hates meetings), and the hairs on the back of Yamamoto’s neck stand on end when Hibari follows. He hadn’t even seen Hibari arrive, but in spite of the man’s murderous aura, Yamamoto feels oddly comforted by his presence. Gokudera almost chokes when he sees Hibari sit down at the end of the table, but he manages to stay composed despite his surprise.  
  
Once they’ve all been seated and served tea, the dance begins.  
  
The Jopok, surprisingly, start the dance—it’s hesitant, but they bring up the issue of trespassing on their territory, with pointed looks at Yamamoto and Ryohei.  
  
“You have to understand, we have a great deal of… _unwanted_ intrusions to our territory on a daily basis,” Park explains. “It’s enough that we have one local yakuza family to contend with; they’ve been encroaching on our business for months now.”  
  
Gokudera shoots Yamamoto a pointed look, but Yamamoto notices that there’s no real fire behind it. “We have already discussed the issue with our men,” Gokudera says quietly, shifting his gaze back to Park. “They were visiting a friend of ours, and were on their way home from that visit. It appears they were unaware that they were crossing through your territory when they were attacked. For the inconvenience their presence caused, my boss would like to extend his most sincere apologies.”  
  
Park grunts, sitting back in his chair. “My men informed me that this isn’t the first time we’ve seen your men on our premises,” he replies icily. “Are you so sure your men were… _mistaken_ , as you say?”  
  
There’s a moment when Yamamoto can tell that Gokudera is fighting the urge to lose his patience, but to Gokudera’s credit, he retains his calm. “I see no reason for them to be coming anywhere near your territory purposely, not without a good reason,” he adds, with a hint of warning.  
  
Park sits back in his chair with a pensive expression—he seems satisfied with the response, but his second, who sits to his right, is increasingly agitated. When his boss doesn’t respond, his face twists into a furious scowl.  
  
“Is the Vongola now the supreme purveyor of justice, then?” he snarls, angrily.  
  
“Lee,” Park hisses dangerously, putting a hand on his subordinate’s forearm.  
  
“You Vongola think you’re so pure and just, making sure the rest of us stay in line. But you’ve missed the point of what we _are_!” Lee says, shaking off his boss’ hand. “What makes you think you’re above us? Who died and made you the gods of the world, huh?”  
  
“Lee, that’s enough!” Park’s voice is horribly harsh, face red as he yanks his subordinate back into his chair. Turning to Gokudera, he says solemnly, “I apologize, my subordinate was out of line. You must understand that tensions have been high in our territory of late; we’ve been in a market war with a few of our enemies, and my men—” he turns a sharp glare to his subordinates at this, “have been increasingly agitated of late.”  
  
Gokudera watches all of this with a blank expression, though he bows his head in acknowledgement of the apology.  
  
“I also apologize for their actions in attacking your men.” Park takes a moment to look directly at Yamamoto, who blinks in surprise. Park’s expression is sincere, which is entirely unexpected. “I am glad to see that you have recovered well.”  
  
“Ah,” Yamamoto rubs the back of his head sheepishly, not quite sure what to say. “Thank you.”  
  
Something isn’t quite right here, because Yamamoto suddenly feels like they’re accusing the wrong man. His gut instinct tells him that Park truly wasn’t behind the ambush Yamamoto and Ryohei walked into that one day.  
  
But the tension in the room isn’t fading, either. Lee is glaring in his direction—has been the entire meeting, and hasn’t shown any sign of remorse for his actions.  
  
“If you don’t mind, Gokudera-san, I’d like to have a moment to speak with my subordinates in private,” Park says apologetically.  
  
Gokudera agrees, and quickly stands; he motions to Yamamoto and Ryohei to do the same (they all ignore Hibari, who has fallen asleep in his chair with a frown on his face—they don’t dare wake him). They step just outside the curtained door, and Gokudera pulls Yamamoto to the side.  
  
“I don’t like this,” he whispers into Yamamoto’s ear harshly. “Park doesn’t seem to have any control over his men, and it’s obvious that they’re pulling shit behind his back.”  
  
Yamamoto sighs. “I have the same feeling—that Lee guy clearly doesn’t like me very much, haha,” Yamamoto whispers back.  
  
“He’s definitely the one pulling the strings behind Park’s back. They’re going to have an internal war if this continues,” Gokudera replies. “And if Lee takes over, these guys will no longer be neutral as far as our relations go.”  
  
Yamamoto chews on his lip as he watches Gokudera retreat into his own mind. He knows that this meeting is really supposed to smooth over relations, but after what Yamamoto has seen thus far, he doesn’t think this meeting will go the way they want.  
  
“I’m glad you managed to convince Hibari to join us,” Gokudera whispers finally. “He might hate you for this meeting part, but I have a feeling we’ll need him.”  
  
Yamamoto grins, glad to been able to take one burden off Gokudera’s back. “I had a feeling,” he says.  
  
With a mirthless snort of a laugh, Gokudera squeezes Yamamoto’s shoulder briefly, but immediately pulls his hand back when Yoshida bursts through the bar’s main door.  
  
“Bro!” he says breathlessly when his eyes find Yamamoto. He cuts through the small crowd at the bar to stand next to the two guardians. “Bro, I… I think you need to see these,” he says quietly, looking suspiciously over his shoulder as he presses a large envelope into Yamamoto’s hands.  
  
Gokudera hovers at Yamamoto’s arm as he slowly opens the envelope and draws out a set of pictures. The first is of a set of crates, not unlike the ones with the weapons logo on the side. But these have no logo—instead, they have small, circular holes cut in the sides, and…  
  
He nearly crumples the photograph in fury when he realizes what he’s seeing. Gokudera’s sharp intake of breath next to him confirm that he isn’t crazy—there’s a tiny set of human hands poking out of the air holes. It’s unmistakable. _Children._  
  
The other pictures seem to show similar shipments, all of them are clearly headed to this Jopok family’s territory, and one of them has a clear shot of several, quite familiar faces on them. One of them is Lee’s.  
  
Another one, Yamamoto recognizes from the basement of a Russian mall in Italy. Yamamoto had already known about the Russian ties, but he honestly has to admit he hadn’t expected them to be so _close to home_. His heart hammers in his chest as the remnants of rage flutter through his veins.  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Gokudera growls. Apparently, Gokudera recognizes him as well.  
  
“What is it??” Ryohei’s suddenly behind them, trying to get a look over Yamamoto’s shoulder—but Yamamoto already has the pictures shoved back into the envelope.  
  
“Good work, Yoshida,” he says, patting his subordinate’s shoulder reassuringly. He can feel the smile on his lips turn dangerous. “You should probably head back to the estate.”  
  
Yoshida swallows thickly as he nods and nervously turns to leave.  
  
“Dammit, Takeshi, you didn’t tell me that their Russian cohorts were—”  
  
Yamamoto cuts off Gokudera’s furious whisper with a hand. “I didn’t realize who exactly it was,” he whispers back, looking around nervously. “Though I can’t say I didn’t suspect as much.”  
  
“Hey! What are you guys talking about?” Ryohei says, voice loud and cutting through the ambient bar noises like a gunshot.  
  
Both Yamamoto and Gokudera whirl and shush him, though Yamamoto feels a little bad for leaving Ryohei out of the loop. He makes a gesture, hoping Ryohei will get the hint that he’ll get the scoop in just a minute.  
  
Gokudera runs a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly in his frustration. “Well, talking with these guys isn’t going to change a goddamn thing, not if _that_ ’s who’s backing them.”  
  
“I know.” Yamamoto sighs. “I know Tsuna said he didn’t want to start a fight, but at least we know we aren’t picking this one on purpose.”  
  
“Tell him that for me, would you?” Gokudera clenches his teeth, leaving Yamamoto blinking. Did Gokudera get into an argument with Tsuna before he got sick? “Goddamn it. I really had hoped we could manage this one without it turning ugly on us so quickly.”  
  
“I’m sorry—”  
  
Ryohei elbows his way in between them. “What the hell is going on—”  
  
“Ryohei.” Yamamoto turns a smile on him. “How do you feel about practicing some of your new boxing moves out today?”  
  
Ryohei blinks for a moment just before his expression brightens. “I think that would be extremely awesome!!” he says, but this time he remembers to keep his voice down to a loud whisper.  
  
“Let Gokudera speak with them just a little longer, and you’ll have your chance,” Yamamoto says, patting him on the shoulder. His eyes look up just in time to catch one of the Jopok boss’ underlings poke his head out of the curtained back, eyes searching for them. “I think that’s our cue to head back.”  
  
Gokudera looks a little ill, but he takes a deep breath. Once he finishes exhaling, he looks back at the door with cold steel in his eyes.  
  
“Let’s show them what it means to mess with Vongola,” he says icily, and leads the way.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera is surprisingly diplomatic, Yamamoto realizes. He doesn’t bring up the human trafficking issue right away—though he leaves ample openings for Park and his men to bring forward relevant topics in their discussion. Park doesn’t look very pleased, and is constantly giving Lee pointed stares as he concedes many of Gokudera’s points. To Ryohei’s credit, he stays very quiet in his seat, though he looks ready to punch the first man that stands on the other side.  
  
Hibari is still fast asleep in his chair.  
  
When it appears that the talks will go nowhere, Gokudera finally brings up the human trafficking issue. Park blanches, but staunchly denies any involvement. Lee, on the other hand, looks nervous, angry—red in the face and about ready to explode straight out of his seat.  
  
When Gokudera taps Yamamoto’s shoulder for the envelope with the pictures in it, a few things happen in a short amount of time:  
  
Lee jumps to his feet, screaming, shaking off Park’s hand. Ryohei immediately punches him brutally in the face.  
  
Hibari wakes up—murderous—either to the sound of screaming, or to the scent of an impending fight.  
  
Park goes down, shot by one of his own men. (By then, it’s obvious to Yamamoto that he hasn’t been involved, and that the Jopok has been facing its own internal troubles long before they ever tried taking on the Vongola.)  
  
Box weapons fly out of the Jopok’s pockets ( _How the hell did they get those?!_ )—Gokudera’s swearing and gearing up his own set of box weapons as well—and all hell breaks loose.  
  
Yamamoto barely has a chance to activate his own flames and pull its sword out of its sheath before he’s attacked by one of the Jopok. More seem to come streaming in from the back door of the bar, like they’d been waiting for this fight. It’s clear that this has been part of Lee’s plan since the beginning, and a sick feeling pools in Yamamoto’s stomach as he realizes how outnumbered they are.  
  
He fights his way over to Gokudera’s side, who’s busy taking out as many Jopok with his handgun while he fidgets with his box weapons with his free hand. It takes a moment for Yamamoto to understand that Gokudera’s starting up his Sistema C.A.I., and Yamamoto does his best to provide cover.  
  
“We have to get out of here, quickly,” Gokudera says, even as the dark bone structure flares to life around the both of them. “I have a feeling this is only the first wave.”  
  
Yamamoto grunts in agreement, eyes searching the throng of enemies in search of Ryohei and Hibari.  
  
He sees a splash of blood flying, the blurred glint of Hibari’s tonfas cutting through a line of Jopok with vicious persistence. Hibari will be fine on his own, so Yamamoto keeps looking for Ryohei.  
  
On the other side of the cramped room, Ryohei is doing plenty of damage with his fists. Kangaryu bounces next to him, providing plenty of cover. Yamamoto begins to turn away when he sees Ryohei take a shot in the chest and goes down hard.  
  
“Sempai!”  
  
Before he can even move in Ryohei’s direction, there’s a loud shout in Russian at the back of the room, and it’s then that Yamamoto knows they’re coming across the next wave of backup.  
  
“Hayato, the Russians—”  
  
“I know!” he snarls, whipping out his arm cannon and loading a stick of dynamite. “Go get Sasagawa and meet me out front. I’ll try to get a car— _shit_ , get down!”  
  
Yamamoto ducks just in time to avoid getting pegged in the head with a stick of dynamite. Before he has a chance to move, Gokudera grabs him and flings them both to the ground as the explosion breathes a blast of hot air around them both, the concussion ricocheting off of the Sistema C.A.I. shields.  
  
Coughing, Yamamoto pulls himself to his feet and offers a hand to Gokudera, hauling him to his feet as well. He turns to find Ryohei, who managed to pull himself away from the blast, but is in the corner, hacking harshly. It’s a relief to see that he’s still conscious. In the confusion, they’ve managed to buy themselves a moment to get away. Yamamoto meets glances with Gokudera, and they quickly part, Yamamoto running over to Ryohei, hauling the man’s arm around his shoulders.  
  
“Can you walk?” he asks.  
  
Ryohei grimaces, but nods after a moment of trying to put weight on his feet. “For now,” he adds with a rough voice.  
  
“Haha, that’s good—let’s try to get you out of here.”  
  
Yamamoto helps Ryohei take one step forward, but on the second step, Ryohei falters, hisses, and promptly passes out. Yamamoto has to scramble to keep his grip on the sudden dead weight against his hip. Muttering curses under his breath, Yamamoto feels his heart hammering in his chest as he shifts and rotates Ryohei so that Yamamoto can pull the Sun Guardian onto his back.  
  
The others in the room are finally starting to come around as the smoke clears by the time Yamamoto gets through the curtained door. He suffers a harsh glare from the bartender, but the bartender says nothing as Yamamoto passes with his burden. (Yamamoto sees a wad of bills sticking out of the bartender’s pocket and realizes that Gokudera has already paid for the damages and inconvenience.)  
  
By the time he gets out front, there’s a car waiting for them with Gokudera in the driver’s seat.  
  
“Get in,” he shouts with an insistent wave.  
  
“Where’s Hibari?”  
  
“He can take care of himself—Takeshi!”  
  
Yamamoto whirls to see a red-faced, dust-covered Russian aiming a gun in his direction, but a shot from behind Yamamoto fells the enemy.  
  
Gokudera chucks the smoking gun down on the driver’s seat as he helps Yamamoto get Ryohei into the back of the car. There’s a deep red stain on the front of Ryohei’s shirt that has Yamamoto even more concerned than before.  
  
“We need to get out of here, fast,” Gokudera says, flinging the keys to Yamamoto.  
  
Yamamoto blinks at him, but Gokudera shrugs.  
  
“Get in, dumbass. You’re the better driver in this situation, I’m the better shot—that’s how it goes,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You have terrible aim with anything that isn’t a sword, idiot.”  
  
Gokudera has a point, so Yamamoto hands the gun off the driver’s seat to Gokudera, climbs in, and drives off.  
  
It doesn’t take long for Yamamoto to realize that they’re being followed, and by Gokudera’s frown, they both know it. Though the Russians have finally ditched the obvious black sedans, they still haven’t stopped driving matching cars—this time, an armada of Land Rovers.  
  
“Hayato…”  
  
“I see them.” He’s taking aim, but even before the first shot goes off, their back window shatters in a barrage of bullets. Yamamoto ducks, and starts zig-zagging through traffic as he tries to shake them off.  
  
Gokudera holds his aim steady, and takes the first car down in a quick succession of well-aimed bullets finding their targets in the enemy car’s front tires. The first car veers and skids, and spews sparks all over the road before it spins into the nearest building.  
  
Yamamoto sees the whole scene in the side mirror, but the car is quickly replaced with another, and the next round of bullets takes out his vision in the driver’s side mirror.  
  
“Stay down, and try to find a clearer route!” Gokudera orders, aiming another round of shots.  
  
Yamamoto steps on the accelerator harder and flies around a corner, nearly sending Gokudera straight out of his seat with a loud curse.  
  
“Hang on!” he says, almost breathlessly. “I’ve got an idea!”  
  
“Thanks for the warning, you idiot!”  
  
“Sorry! Haha.”  
  
“Shit, they’re still there—”  
  
A blow strikes Yamamoto’s shoulder, and he grunts in pain as their car veers in response. But Gokudera cries out too, and his own pain vanishes; he looks over to see Gokudera clamping a hand tightly over his shoulder. He opens his mouth in concern, but Gokudera glares back at him and takes aim again.  
  
“Keep driving!”  
  
They’re not too far from the estate now—a long ways from the bar—but Yamamoto can’t help but steal glances over at Gokudera to make sure he’s all right. Gokudera’s forehead is creased, his expression tight with pain, but he still manages to take down two more pursuing cars. There isn’t much Yamamoto can do except continue driving, so he focuses on getting them away. A few more sharp turns and back alleys to cut through, and they’ve narrowed their enemy down to one car.  
  
“The estate’s just around the corner,” Yamamoto announces, and two shots later, Gokudera grunts.  
  
“They’re gone,” he says, and Yamamoto can’t help but hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I got the last one that was on our tail.”  
  
“How’s Sempai?”  
  
Gokudera leans over into the back seat, checking on their injured passenger. “He’s still alive, but we really need to get him into the infirmary.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
Gokudera looks over his shoulder from where he’s leaning, meeting Yamamoto’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “Hurts, but I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks.”  
  
Yamamoto believes him—the way Gokudera’s looking him directly in the eyes means that he’s telling the truth. His eyes go to the bullet hole in the dashboard in front of him, and he suddenly remembers, lifts an arm to feel at his shoulder—  
  
—and there’s nothing there. He frowns, because he’s pretty sure he felt the impact of the bullet, and it _hurt_ like crazy. But all he feels are twin rips in his shirt and unscathed flesh beneath.  
  
 _Huh_ , he thinks. _I guess I got lucky on that one_.  
  
“Look, Lambo is waving us down at the gate; he’s got a medical team waiting. Let’s get this stupid Lawn-head inside,” Gokudera says.  
  
Yamamoto blinks back to focusing on the present, and breathes a sigh of relief. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins during the entire fight drains out of him. He pulls the car up next to the waiting medic van.  
  
They made it back.  
  
He’ll think about the war they’ve just started later.  
  
  
  
  
  
“I told you it wasn’t major,” Gokudera says, lifting his arm into the sling with only a light wince of pain. “Just a day in this stupid contraption, a little rest, and I’ll be fine.”  
  
Yamamoto frowns disapprovingly at the sling, but the doctor had already assured him that it really isn’t a bad injury. Nothing a little rest and a couple stitches won’t fix, at least.  
  
“Hey, have you heard any word on Lawn-head?” Gokudera asks suddenly, wincing as he wriggles his coat over his sore shoulder. “The doctor wouldn’t tell me a damn thing.”  
  
“He’s stable, but still unconscious,” Yamamoto replies. “The surgery went well, and there wasn’t any permanent damage, so they expect he’ll be up and fighting like his usual self in a couple weeks.”  
  
Gokudera breathes a sigh of relief. “Good,” he says. “We’ll need his help.”  
  
“Hibari had Kusakabe call earlier, while you were still arguing with the doctor,” Yamamoto says. “He doesn’t ever want to be pulled into such a boring herbivore meeting ever again, but Kusakabe says he seemed happy to get some violence out of his system, haha.”  
  
“Che. Told you he’d be fine on his own,” Gokudera says. He slides his feet into the slippers waiting on the floor, testing putting his weight on each foot before he pushes himself off the infirmary bed. Satisfied, he starts walking to the door, straight past Yamamoto.  
  
“Hey, where are you going?” Yamamoto asks.  
  
“I need to go talk to the Tenth.”  
  
“Hayato, you really should hold off until you’ve had some rest—”  
  
Gokudera whirls on him, fisting the front of Yamamoto’s shirt with his free hand. “Dammit, Takeshi! We just started a _war_! The Tenth will need to be filled in on what’s going on—”  
  
“—Gokudera-kun, you really should rest.” Tsuna’s tired voice brings both men’s attention to the open door. Their friend leans against the doorframe, looking a little exhausted, but clearly no longer as violently ill as he’d been that morning.  
  
“Tenth!”  
  
“I heard about the meeting,” Tsuna says. “It’s not your fault, Gokudera-kun. I had a feeling a long while back that they’d soon be our enemies.”  
  
Gokudera still looks upset, but he doesn’t press the issue further. “I’m sorry, Tenth.”  
  
“Don’t be. You did the best you could,” Tsuna replies gently. “Sit—we can talk in here for a while.”  
  
Gokudera carefully sits back down on the edge of the infirmary bed as Tsuna takes the chair. Yamamoto sits down next to Gokudera, ignoring the warning glare the Storm Guardian aims in his direction.  
  
“Tell me what happened,” Tsuna says. “I know the gist of the situation, but I don’t know any details.”  
  
Gokudera takes a deep breath, looks to Yamamoto for an encouraging nod, and then tells him. Tells him about the bar, Lee’s insubordination, the box weapons and the human trafficking—shows him the photos—and then tells him about the Russian involvement.  
  
Tsuna takes it all in admirably, but Yamamoto doesn’t miss the growing sadness in Tsuna’s expression. None of this seems to be surprising to their Boss, but then Yamamoto remembers that Tsuna does have the Vongola gift of intuition. He must’ve sensed something was amiss a long time ago.  
  
“I’m afraid this may be part of Byakuran’s plan—he’s already making his move,” Gokudera concludes. “We already knew about his ties with the Russians, but now he’s bringing the Jopok under his wing. The Jopok hate the idea of having a Japanese head of Vongola, so it probably wasn’t hard to turn them against us.”  
  
“It looks like this war was unavoidable, then,” Tsuna says with a grim smile. “All we can do is gear up for the fight.” He looks apologetic, but surprisingly, he doesn’t apologize. “Rest up, Gokudera, Yamamoto. We’ll need you both in top condition.”  
  
“You too, Tenth,” Gokudera says, giving Tsuna an appraising look. “You only just look like you’re coming back from the flu.”  
  
Tsuna looks sheepish, but nods. “I’ll see what Reborn says about progress on the Namimori bunker—if it’s close enough to being done to where we can move in, we might be safer there. For the time being.”  
  
Gokudera almost looks like he wants to protest, but he doesn’t say anything except, “Thank you, Tenth.”  
  
And the way Gokudera says it makes Yamamoto all the more worried—there’s something else going on that both Tsuna and Gokudera seem to understand, but Yamamoto isn’t seeing it just yet.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ryohei wakes up the morning Gokudera’s arm comes out of the sling, and the first thing he does is try to escape the infirmary. As far as he’s concerned, he’s lost _twice_ against the Jopok, and he’s furious that he didn’t have a good enough chance at revenge this time. He doesn’t get far before he collapses, but the doctor seems optimistic despite the long string of angry, choice words he has for his disobedient patient.  
  
In the midst of the fuss over Ryohei, Yamamoto doesn’t notice when Gokudera slips out of the infirmary.  
  
Gokudera spends the next three days locked in his lab, and doesn’t answer a single one of Yamamoto’s calls or texts.  
  
Yamamoto’s worry slowly crumbles into anger, and he takes it out on the straw dummies in his dojo. He practices for five hours straight, until Tsuna comes to find him—and talks him down from his high. At some point in their conversation, Yamamoto remembers that Gokudera still has the universe-jumping machine, and realizes that Gokudera’s probably trying to focus on having that ready for when they face Byakuran. It works as some sort of consolation, taking the edge off his fury. He apologizes to Tsuna, but doesn’t mention the real issue, because Gokudera had told him to keep it a secret.  
  
He’s still angry, though.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto’s heart skips a beat when the doorknob to the apartment rattles. He resists the urge to look up from the baseball game on TV, though; he hasn’t forgotten that Gokudera has all but snubbed him lately. The door softly creaks open behind him, and he pointedly takes a long swallow from the bottle of beer he’s been nursing miserably all evening.  
  
“Hey,” Gokudera says, sounding tired.  
  
Yamamoto grunts, but still doesn’t turn around or answer—well aware of the fact that he’s probably being childish. But it still kind of hurts, and he’s still mad. He hears the door click shut, the shuffle of Gokudera’s shoes coming off in the entryway, the soft padding of sock-covered feet on the carpet.  
  
He smells Gokudera’s cologne before arms wrap around him from behind (there’s a hint of a hitch in Gokudera’s breathing—that stupid shoulder wound must still be bothering him), and there’s a sigh against his hair. Yamamoto’s shoulders stiffen at the contact, but Gokudera ignores him and plants a soft kiss on his neck.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Gokudera breathes into his ear.  
  
The words break the dam that is holding back Yamamoto’s emotions—he isn’t sure which feeling is strongest, the relief or the fury. Since it’s easier to give into the anger, he steels himself for an argument, because he sure as hell is ready for one.  
  
“What the _hell_ , Hayato.” His words come out even icier than he intended, but it has the desired effect: Gokudera’s arms are retracting, and he’s moving around to block the television. “You just think you can slink back out of your precious lab after you’ve _refused_ to talk to me for… for days! Right before we’re headed to war with a family we’ve feared for almost a _decade_! And you just want me to forgive you?”  
  
Gokudera looks like he’s torn between surprise and his own brand of righteous anger, but his exhaustion wins over both when he slumps onto the other side of the couch.  
  
“So you want to argue about it now?” Gokudera says tiredly.  
  
“Damn straight I do!” Yamamoto slams down the beer on the side table. “I thought we were supposed to be working as a team here, Hayato. But you keep cutting me out, and only coming to me when it’s convenient _for you_. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? How much I hate being left in the dark, especially when it comes to you?”  
  
“I know,” Gokudera says.  
  
“Then why do you keep doing it to me?”  
  
Gokudera sighs.  
  
“You know, I’ve had half a thought to make myself scarce around you. Just maybe turn off my phone, got do my own goddamn thing. Not tell you a word about it. And you know what I worry about? I worry that you won’t care half as much as I do about it—about _us_.” Yamamoto stands, pointing a finger angrily in Gokudera’s direction. “You can’t keep pulling me in all different directions, Gokudera.”  
  
“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” Gokudera says again, with a little more fire in his tone. “What more do you want me to say? I know I’ve been a selfish dick—you have to remember that this…this _relationship_ stuff still isn’t easy for me!”  
  
“We’ve been together for _how long_ now?” Yamamoto spits back.  
  
“Goddamn it, Takeshi! Cut me a little slack here?” Gokudera pleads. He slips off the couch and settles on his knees in front of Yamamoto, grabbing his hands and holding tight, even when Yamamoto tries to shake him off. “I really don’t want to fight about this with you— _especially_ not you. Not now. Just give me a chance to explain—”  
  
Yamamoto sighs, and doesn’t pull away—but he gives Gokudera what he hopes is a suitably scathing look. He already knows part of the answer, after all, but it’ll help to hear it directly from Gokudera’s lips. Gokudera looks hopeful now that Yamamoto isn’t pulling against his hands.  
  
“Just sit down, okay? I’ll explain, I promise,” he insists.  
  
He makes a show of rolling his eyes as he sits down (he has to admit, he kind of likes having Gokudera on the defensive for once, because it means he’ll get more of the truth). Gokudera goes to the kitchen and fixes himself a glass of whiskey on the rocks before he comes back to join Yamamoto on the couch.  
  
“You know about the universe-traveling machine already,” Gokudera says.  
  
“You’ve been working on that again, I already knew that—”  
  
“Let me finish, damn it.” Gokudera takes a swig out of his glass, and won’t meet Yamamoto’s eyes as he fidgets for a moment. “Byakuran knows about it.”  
  
Yamamoto stiffens. “What? _How_ —”  
  
“I don’t have confirmation, but I’m pretty sure he knows. I have a security protocol built into the machine, where it gives me a signal when someone tries to probe into the machine’s computer.” He takes another long swallow, finishing off the glass. “My primary alarm went off within minutes of when I first powered the machine on.”  
  
Yamamoto feels his breath catch in his throat, because now he knows exactly why Gokudera thinks Byakuran knows about it.  
  
“Now I don’t know for sure where the attempt came from, but—”  
  
“—Byakuran’s the only one we know that would have the ability to find out so quickly,” Yamamoto finishes.  
  
Gokudera nods. “I think the elemental flames I use to power the machine are what’s giving it away so quickly,” he explains. “That’s the only explanation I have for Byakuran’s discovery. I’m… I’m trying to figure out a way around that.”  
  
There isn’t much Yamamoto can say to that, so he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Gokudera gets up to refill his whiskey glass, and slumps back into the couch with a frustrated sigh.  
  
“I had a feeling you were working on the machine,” Yamamoto admits, finally.  
  
Gokudera eyes him suspiciously. “Then why were you so pissed at me?”  
  
“Because, Hayato, I like being _told_ these things.”  
  
“But I just told you—”  
  
Yamamoto puts a finger on his lips, silencing him. “We both know how to read each other without saying much, I know that,” he explains gently. The anger has long since bled from his system. “But it’s a sign of trust when you actually fill me in on the details. I can’t pick it all up from assumption.”  
  
Folding his arms over his chest, Gokudera once again frowns in suspicion. “You tricked me,” he accuses.  
  
“What?” Yamamoto blinks, not quite sure what Gokudera’s saying.  
  
“You weren’t actually mad at me, were you?”  
  
Yamamoto blinks, and then laughs, though it sounds a little menacing. “Of course I was mad at you!” he says. “I just… wasn’t as mad at you as I thought?”  
  
Gokudera snorts. “I should’ve known better—you’re a better actor than you look, idiot,” he says.  
  
“Hey, if it gets the truth out of you…”  
  
“I was going to tell you anyway!” Gokudera protests. “But I get it—I’m sorry. Really, I am.”  
  
Yamamoto raises an eyebrow, but he can’t hold the expression for long, not with Gokudera looking so genuinely contrite. He leans forward on his elbows, getting into Gokudera’s face.  
  
“I suppose I can forgive you,” he says, having a hard time fighting the grin spreading across his face, “but only if you—”  
  
Gokudera cuts him off with a grunt by pressing his lips harshly against Yamamoto’s. Yamamoto almost tries to pull away, but when Gokudera drags his teeth across his bottom lip, he kind of forgets what he was going to say. It doesn’t really matter, now that the truth is out on the table.  
  
Even as Gokudera’s fingers pull at the buttons on his shirt and pants, Yamamoto still can’t help but feel like there’s more to the story than Gokudera’s letting on. But when Gokudera finally frees his cock and wraps his ringed fingers tightly around it, he figures he can let it slide for the time being.  
  
  
  
  
  
Three weeks pass after the disaster of a meeting with the Jopok. Nothing much happens, though Ryohei makes a full recovery in astonishing time. He boasts that it’s his manliness that helps him heal quickly, but everyone knows he’s been using sun flames on himself every day since he regained consciousness. The Jopok haven’t sent any messengers, any assassins, nothing—just dead silence, which is slightly unnerving, but Yamamoto takes the momentary reprieve for what it is.  
  
Gokudera continues to spend a lot of time in the lab, but he sends texts to Yamamoto _pointedly_ often—almost to the point of annoyance. Or, at least, most people would be annoyed; Yamamoto finds the gesture to be amusing, and he appreciates it. Even when the texts read something like, ‘ _Hi, Idiot. Stop worrying, I’m alive. Will be back at the apartment in 30 minutes.’_  
  
Yamamoto grins at his phone as he walks down the street. They’ve been cooped up at the estate for so long; it feels _nice_ to walk around outside a bit, even if it’s just to get a quick grocery list taken care of. Yamamoto texts back a quick response, letting Gokudera know he’s headed to the store.  
  
As soon as he sticks the phone back in his pocket, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Careful not to be obvious, he tries to look over his shoulder, but sees nobody that immediately would call attention. Instinct kicks strongly into gear, though, and he knows he’s being followed. He just doesn’t know who it is yet.  
  
He continues his way to the store, which is only a block away, trying at every opportunity to get an idea of who’s tailing him. The aura he senses isn’t exactly friendly, so he can only assume it’s an enemy of some sort—the Vongola currently have plenty of those. He carries on as usual, waiting for more of a hint than gut instinct.  
  
Nothing happens as he picks up the supplies he needs from the store, pays, and leaves. The feeling seems to be gone for the moment. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and as soon as he grabs for it with his free hand, a shoulder smacks into his, sending his groceries to the pavement.  
  
“Watch where you’re going!” a rough voice snarls at him. “Fuckers, paying more attention to their phones than where they’re going.”  
  
“Ahaha, sorry!” Yamamoto says as he bends down to get his fallen groceries.  
  
A rough hand on his shoulder has him spinning around, and a fist flies at his face—he dodges.  
  
“Asshole, you think a _sorry_ will cut it?” the man says.  
  
Now that Yamamoto gets a good look at his assailant, he can see the tattooed markings on the man’s forearm, the missing fingertip, the scar across the man’s cheek—a general ruffian, looking to cause trouble. Not exactly what Yamamoto is expecting, but this shouldn’t take long. He raises his hands in a gesture of peace.  
  
“Do you know who the fuck I am, you dipshit?” the man shrieks.  
  
“No?” Yamamoto dodges another fist. “But I’m sure you don’t know who I am either, so I guess that makes us even! Haha.”  
  
With a roar, the man whips out a knife, and Yamamoto grimaces. The man’s anger is making his movement predictable, easy to dodge and counter. Yamamoto always has his sword strapped to his back, so this won’t really take too long if it gets serious, but he’d hoped…  
  
Suddenly, he realizes he’s a long ways away from his fallen groceries, and then that feeling’s back from before. And then it hits him that maybe, just maybe, this is a setup. But before he can think too much along those lines, he senses that there’s someone really dangerous behind him—  
  
Stars explode in his vision, and it’s lights out.  
  
  
  
  
  
The world comes back in slow, blurred fragments of memory. Yamamoto’s head pounds furiously in time with his heartbeat, aching in waves that drown out his hearing in increments. There are hands on him. His shirt is there, and then it isn’t. There’s the smell of clean leather, like a new car, and bands of cold wrap tightly around his arms and chest. A car door slams, jerking him awake, but the movement makes his head scream in agony and he’s out again.  
  
An annoying tapping noise brings him back. He tries to ignore it, but there’s the sound of his name—faint, muffled as though underwater, and he _knows exactly who it is_.  
  
His heart hammers in his chest as he tries desperately to regain lucidity. The throbbing in his head still makes his stomach lurch when he opens his eyes, but it’s not as bad as it was before. His head feels like a cannon ball strapped to his neck, though, and that’s going to take a little work to get it to be upright.  
  
Gunshots echo in the distance, and Yamamoto can hear shouting over the tapping and name-yelling; the racket is just enough to get his eyes to stay open this time. He’s looking down at his lap in confusion, because there’s a bunch of wire and weird-looking capsules and black boxes and a funny red timer—  
  
His breath sticks in his throat as he realizes what’s going on. Jerking, he finds that his arms are bound tightly to his sides with wires, and his wrists are clamped together behind his back with something plastic (likely zip-ties, from the feel of them). Gathering his wits, he realizes he’s in the back of a luxury sedan of some kind—and as the tapping grabs his attention, he looks to see Gokudera trying to get his attention through the tinted window.  
  
Gokudera’s got his hand shading his eyes as he peers inside, and as their eyes meet, a look of relief floods over Gokudera’s face. Behind Gokudera, there’s a massive fight going on between the Vongola, led by Ryohei and Lambo, and a mixture of (what Yamamoto assumes to be) allied Koreans and Russian suit-clad cronies. Gunfire, elemental attacks, and box weapons cast a haze over the small crowd gathered on the battlefield. Yamamoto can’t even tell where they are.  
  
“Hold still,” Gokudera orders loudly, voice still coming through the window muffled.  
  
Yamamoto grits his teeth and looks back down at the timer—there’s only a little over six minutes on the clock. If he’s wired to explode, then the car is likely booby-trapped as well as a precaution. He opens his mouth to warn Gokudera, but when he looks up, Gokudera’s not there.  
  
For a few moments, all he can hear over the sounds of the fighting outside is the sound of his own breathing. It hitches every few breaths, and it takes a moment of sudden clarity to realize that he just might be panicking. Only a little.  
  
He laughs tightly and mirthlessly, if only to break the sound of his own growing worry.  
  
Sparks at the base of the car door on his left make him jump. There’s a fizzle, and the scent of burnt plastic fills his nostrils. A half-second later, the car door opens to reveal a frowning Gokudera.  
  
“I got the exterior bombs defused,” he announces tiredly, looking Yamamoto over carefully. “The car won’t be a problem anymore, but…” Gokudera’s eyes land on the timer. “Well, _shit_.”  
  
Yamamoto tries to crack his careless, _oops-I-got-into-some-trouble-again_ sheepish grin, but he’s pretty sure it’s coming across as more of a grimace at this point.  
  
Without another word, Gokudera doesn’t waste any time as he gets to work. If the situation wasn’t so terrifyingly deadly, Yamamoto would find the spectacle fascinating—Gokudera rolls a small tool kit out on the seat next to him, traces his fingers along the wires along Yamamoto’s skin, and starts muttering to himself in Italian.  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t dare speak—even realizes he’s holding his breath at times—for fear of breaking Gokudera’s concentration. Gokudera is probably the only person who _can_ figure this out, can get them both out alive and whole, because this is Gokudera’s field of expertise, but even that knowledge doesn’t quell the adrenaline coursing through Yamamoto’s veins.  
  
Gokudera doesn’t start cutting into wires until there’s only two minutes left on the clock (though it feels like it’s been _hours_ ), and after cutting three wires, he cracks open one of the black boxes sitting in Yamamoto’s lap. It’s filled with wires and a few pins—Gokudera wastes no time in pulling out what looks like a laser-cutter from his kit.  
  
“Hold still,” he instructs. (His voice is surprisingly calm, though Yamamoto doesn’t miss the beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead as he works.)  
  
It seems to take forever for Gokudera to position the cutter where he wants it—a few times, he pauses with gritted teeth, takes a deep breath, and repositions it. The first time he sets it off, a crackle-fizz and a spark send small puff of smoke out of the box. The timer’s red face jams, numbers scrambling. Yamamoto grins, but the look on Gokudera’s face wipes it out.  
  
“Shit—”  
  
He quickly cuts another three wires in short succession, and winces, as though he’s expecting it to explode anyway. But when the smoke clears from the top of the box, he peers down into it.  
  
“I… I think I got it,” he says, breathlessly, voice finally showing signs of shaking. “At least we can get this off of you now. At the very least, the main firing line is jammed; let’s get out of here before we find out if there’s some kind of time delay subroutine running in the background.”  
  
Yamamoto barks a bit of manic-sounding laughter as the tension floods from his shoulders. (Gokudera glares at him as if to say, _What the fuck are you laughing about now, idiot_ , but he doesn’t say anything out loud.) As Gokudera cuts the wires and the plastic ties on his wrists, he quickly wriggles out of the mess and follows Gokudera out of the car.  
  
“YAMAMOTO!! WE WERE EXTREMELY WORRIED ABOUT YOU—”  
  
Ryohei knocks out the nearest enemy Mafiosi with a vicious uppercut before running over to greet Gokudera and Yamamoto. Grinning at Yamamoto, Ryohei pulls something off his shoulder and pushes it into Yamamoto’s hands—it takes Yamamoto a second to realize that it’s his beloved sword, Shigure Kintoki. Unsheathing it, he grins gratefully at Ryohei for a second—it’s all the time they have—before turning and igniting his rain flames, joining the fray.  
  
Their enemies seem to have endless numbers in their favor, but Yamamoto sees Hibari join the fight out of the corner of his eye. Shooting Gokudera a questioning glance, Gokudera shrugs and smirks—and then turns around and shoots the nearest charging enemy in the face with his arm cannon. Shigure Kintoki gripped strongly in his fists, Yamamoto dances through a wave of enemies, but the fight seems to be lasting a really long time.  
  
In the process of taking down a sea of faces, one thing stands out in his mind: they’re all wearing the same insignia on the arms of their suits.  
  
And it’s _familiar_.  
  
“Hey, Takeshi—shit, duck, you idiot!” Gokudera’s voice rings out, and Yamamoto moves just in time to get out of the way of Gokudera’s storm cannon as it whines over his head. When the dust from the explosion behind him clears, Gokudera comes up and stands against his back. “Do you notice something about the crest they’re all wearing?”  
  
It _clicks_ , just in that moment, why the crest is familiar. “It’s Millefiore, isn’t it?” he says.  
  
“Not quite,” Gokudera says, “but it looks an awful lot like it.” They break apart for a few moments to take down enemies on both sides, and Gokudera returns to say, “I think it’s Gesso’s insignia.”  
  
Yamamoto clenches his teeth, but doesn’t falter. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gokudera replies, sounding worn. “Yeah, it’s bad.”  
  
“Let’s get out of here, then.”  
  
Gokudera nods, and then pulls his hand in front of his face, frowning. In seconds, different color flames ignite on the rings on his fingers, and he reaches for the boxes on his belt—he’s going to initiate Sistema C.A.I.  
  
“Cover me,” is all he says before he starts igniting the boxes.  
  
Yamamoto grins, because the thrill of fighting alongside Gokudera is like a drug (even if it’s dangerous as hell right now), but as he turns, there’s suddenly a body way too close to him—  
  
His side explodes with pain, and he looks down to see one of the Gesso with a slim, illegal switchblade in his hands, the blade itself is buried deep in Yamamoto’s gut. Choking on a breath, he shoves the man off and takes a swing with his sword—he cuts the man brutally across the chest. It’s all his body can take, and he staggers backwards several steps, gagging, as he tugs on the end of the knife.  
  
But as soon as he pulls it free, there’s a burning, tingling sensation in his side, and suddenly the pain is completely gone. So is the wound.  
  
Gokudera suddenly cries out behind him; Yamamoto turns to see him drop to his knees, blood pouring from his side. Yamamoto’s eyes blaze furiously as he scans the area for an attacker—but there’s nobody nearby, not close enough to land a blow like that without getting past him. He runs to Gokudera to help him to his feet, and it’s then that he notices two things: The wound is in the _exact same spot_ that he was stabbed, and there isn’t a tear in Gokudera’s shirt at the injury site.  
  
“Hayato…?” he says, the name coming out choked around the bile rising in the back of his throat. He slings his sword over his shoulder to free his hands.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Gokudera gets to his feet, but staggers against Yamamoto’s shoulder. “O-Ouch.”  
  
“ _What the hell is going on_?” Yamamoto demands, grabbing Gokudera’s arm and pulling it around his shoulder for support.  
  
“Sorry,” Gokudera says, voice quiet. “I c-can explain, later—” and it’s all he can manage before his knees give out.  
  
Yamamoto can’t drag Gokudera away from the impromptu battlefield fast enough—he doesn’t even turn to check to see if the others are following him. All he can think of is finding a car, or something to get them away from here and back to base. Now that he’s had a good look at their location, they’re somewhere in Yokohama, in the shipping district. They’re not at a Vongola-owned property, either, but Yamamoto has a few guesses as to which side of the district they’re in.  
  
“YAMAMOTO!” Ryohei calls to him from somewhere up ahead. Yamamoto’s eyes find him waving furiously, pointing to a car. “Get him in here!!”  
  
Yamamoto shifts his grip on Gokudera’s limp body, the moan coming out of Gokudera’s mouth sends ice straight into his veins, but he shoves the emotion aside just long enough to shuffle Gokudera into the back of Ryohei’s commandeered vehicle. Yamamoto rummages around for something with which he can staunch the bleeding injury and put pressure on it.  
  
“He looks extremely pale!!” Ryohei says as he starts the engine. “What happened?!”  
  
“I don’t know,” Yamamoto replies. “Lend me your jacket, Sempai—I need to put pressure on it.”  
  
Ryohei shuffles around, driving erratically with his knees as he scrambles to get out of his jacket before tossing it back to Yamamoto. He returns his grip to the wheel just in time to swerve back on their side of the road, narrowly avoiding collision with an oncoming car.  
  
“Whoa!! Sorry about that!” Ryohei calls over his shoulder. Yamamoto simply glares at him through the rearview mirror.  
  
Despite Ryohei’s initial swerving, he actually isn’t a bad driver—he manages to get them back up to Tokyo and into Namimori in under an hour, even with some traffic on the main roads. Yamamoto isn’t sure how they’ve managed to evade the police so far, but he’s thankful as he continues to put pressure on Gokudera’s wound. Gokudera shifts and moans.  
  
“We’re almost there!” Ryohei calls over his shoulder.  
  
Suddenly, ice-cold hands cover Yamamoto’s, and he looks down to see Gokudera staring back up at him with glassy eyes.  
  
“I-I can hold it,” he says determinedly.  
  
“Hayato—”  
  
“You’re awake!”  
  
Gokudera shifts, grunting in pain as he reaches under his jacket and fishes out a gun. Pressing it into Yamamoto’s hand, he whispers, “Keep an eye on the road behind, idiot.” _I’m counting on you_ goes unsaid.  
  
Yamamoto swallows thickly as he palms the Glock, but he nods, keeping a sharp look out behind them.  
  
When he looks back down at Gokudera, Gokudera’s looking out the side window, dazed, as he presses Ryohei’s jacket against his own wound. If Yamamoto isn’t mistaken, Gokudera almost looks _smug_ —but before he can think about what it means (or how he feels about it), he notices that there’s a car tailing them.  
  
“Sempai…” he says quietly, in warning.  
  
“Leave it to me!!” Ryohei grins wickedly and stomps viciously on the accelerator.  
  
Three shots—as much as Gokudera teases him about being a bad shot, he’s actually not _that_ bad with guns—and five minutes of Ryohei’s insane driving later, and they’re in the clear.  
  
Gokudera’s passed out again by the time they get to base and get him to the emergency wing of the Vongola infirmary. It’s just as well; Yamamoto isn’t sure how much he can control his anger just yet if he starts asking questions. Instead, he’s stuck with only his own thoughts in the small waiting room to the side of the surgery wing. A doctor comes by eventually to check him over—he’s got a mild concussion and a few bruises, but is otherwise just fine—and Yamamoto’s left back to his own thoughts.  
  
The doctor comes out after a couple hours with good news, but Yamamoto still can’t seem to come down from his adrenaline high. He declines the offer to see Gokudera, who’s doped up on drugs to stave off the pain as long as possible.  
  
Yamamoto takes a walk (inside the complex, this time—he’s learned his lesson).  
  
  
  
  
  
There’s a beautiful Zen garden in the middle of the Vongola estate at Namimori. Yamamoto secretly believes that Hibari had something to do with it being built—even though it’s spring, there isn’t a single sakura tree in sight—though he doubts Hibari would ever admit to it. It’s one of Yamamoto’s favorite places to retreat to for thinking; he has a spot on the steps of the small shrine at one end of the garden where he has a perfect view of the simple rock patterns and the koi pond.  
  
It’s there that Yamamoto meditates, staring out over the pristinely-kept white rocks as it helps clear his mind and drain the adrenaline from his system. He thinks about nothing—just lets his eyes take in the scenery before him, breathes in the fresh air as it clears the antiseptic smell from the hospital.  
  
He’s in a daze from meditation when Ryohei’s loud voice shatters his moment of calm.  
  
“Yamamoto!! There you are—you’re extremely hard to find sometimes!”  
  
Yamamoto grins sheepishly at Ryohei as he approaches.  
  
“Haha, sorry,” he apologizes, though his smile wavers at Ryohei’s frown. “Is everything okay…?”  
  
“The doctor says Octopus-head can have visitors now—why aren’t you there?” Ryohei asks accusingly, his voice surprisingly soft (for Ryohei; it’s still loud enough to scare off the nearby birds). “He was so extremely worried about you when you went missing.”  
  
Yamamoto winces at the accusation, because it’s addressing a fear he’s been holding back: that it’s really his fault Gokudera is hurt. He knows Gokudera had something to do with it too—Yamamoto’s _sure_ that the stab wound he’d received, the one that disappeared from his side, is the one that’s currently hospitalizing Gokudera. Gokudera did something to him, to the both of them, and Yamamoto isn’t sure how he feels about this just yet, other than _furious_. And he knows he won’t be of any help to Gokudera’s healing if he shows up still angry—that’s why he’s _here_ , after all.  
  
Ryohei crosses his arms expectantly, like he wants a reply. “You should be there,” he reiterates, and it’s no longer a question. He grabs for Yamamoto’s arm. “Come on.”  
  
Yamamoto dodges Ryohei’s hand. “Sempai,” he says in warning. “Give me a few more minutes to think.”  
  
For a moment, Ryohei freezes in surprise, like he hadn’t expected such hostile resistance out of Yamamoto, of all people. When he moves again, Yamamoto half-expects Ryohei to punch him, but instead the boxer sighs noisily and plops down next to Yamamoto on the shrine’s steps. But he doesn’t say anything right away, which surprises Yamamoto—they simply sit there for a beat.  
  
“Don’t be so hard on him, Yamamoto,” Ryohei says after a few minutes of quiet. “You really don’t understand how much it tore him apart that they had you.”  
  
Yamamoto casts a sidelong glance at Ryohei. “How did you guys find me, anyway?”  
  
“They left a note at the estate.” Ryohei shifts, leaning back on his elbows as they rest against the next step up. “Octopus-head said that he thought this was a trap just for him, so he wanted to go get you by himself. He was _extremely_ pissed off that they wanted to get to him by using you.”  
  
Yamamoto leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares down into his hands. He had a feeling that the only reason he’d been kept alive was because they needed him as bait. Yamamoto knows that the Gesso family is after Gokudera’s blueprints for his universe-jumping machine, so maybe they were trying to broker a deal, or kill him off in the process.  
  
“They almost succeeded—Gokudera shouldn’t have come,” Yamamoto says, surprised by the anger still present in his own voice. “He should’ve stayed back—”  
  
“But he didn’t, and it’s a good thing!! Nobody can tear apart explosives like Octopus-head!” Ryohei exclaims. “Look, Yamamoto—if he hadn’t come, you probably wouldn’t be here alive. I don’t think I could’ve disabled that trap if my life depended on it; I probably would’ve blown us both up, and that would’ve been extremely bad!!”  
  
Yamamoto snorts, allowing himself a small smile at Ryohei’s choice of words.  
  
“So don’t be so hard on him when he wakes up, okay? He really did the best he could. I don’t quite understand what’s going on between you two because I’m bad at figuring that kind of shit out, but at the very least you really need to be there for him.”  
  
Ryohei is, surprisingly, _right_. Yamamoto forgets that even though Ryohei isn’t always the smartest person around, the guy is shockingly perceptive sometimes. The red-hot rage that had been burning through Yamamoto’s very bones is finally fading.  
  
“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees. “I’ll go—just give me two minutes, I promise.”  
  
Ryohei nods, and stands with a stretch. “Good; for a while I thought I was going to have to punch you to get you to come.”  
  
“Haha.” Ryohei begins to walk away, but Yamamoto stops him. “Sempai?” Ryohei turns, and Yamamoto grins and says, “Thanks.”  
  
Ryohei turns and waves over the top of his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto takes vigil that night at Gokudera’s bedside. Gokudera isn’t lucid even when he wakes—the dose of morphine they have him on is pretty strong—but Yamamoto doesn’t budge. He may not be angry now, but he still has a lot of questions that he’s anxious to ask.  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes three days for the doctors to wean Gokudera off the good painkillers, and by the time he’s lucid enough to hold a real conversation, he’s exhausted and grumpy and still in some pain. Yamamoto wakes from his short nap in the chair next to the bed when he hears rustling.  
  
“Hey,” Gokudera greets sullenly when he sees that Yamamoto’s awake. He’s tugging at his IV lines. “Help me get these damned things off so I can get out of here.”  
  
It takes a second for Yamamoto to blink awake before he remembers where they are.  
  
“Whoa, whoa,” Yamamoto says, leaning forward and grabbing Gokudera’s hands. “That’s an antibiotic—you can’t take that line out until the doctor says so.”  
  
“I feel fine, damn it,” Gokudera snaps, sitting forward a little further—the movement abruptly ends with a hiss of pain, and a muffled curse when Gokudera falls back into the pillows with his face twisted. “Augh, _ow_ ,” he groans, piteously. “Maybe not.”  
  
Yamamoto _almost_ feels sorry for him—but he catches himself when he remembers how Gokudera landed here in the hospital in the first place.  
  
“I told you that it wasn’t a good idea,” Yamamoto says.  
  
“You just told me this was an antibiotic,” Gokudera replies, accusingly. “You didn’t say it was going to hurt like a motherfucker.”  
  
“I thought that part would be obvious?”  
  
Gokudera glares at him, but it lacks fire behind it as he slumps further back into the pillows. Glancing around, Gokudera’s half-hearted glare turns into a scowl as he realizes where he is.  
  
“Fuck, how long have I been here?” he asks, after a moment.  
  
“Three days,” Yamamoto replies. “And stop messing with the IV lines.”  
  
Gokudera’s fingers pause and then retreat, his hands flopping irritably at his sides. He sighs and winces as the movement tugs at the healing wound in his side.  
  
“How long have you been here?” Gokudera finally asks.  
  
Yamamoto snorts. “Just about as long as you. This isn’t the most comfortable chair to sleep in, haha.”  
  
“Idiot,” Gokudera says softly. “Well, I’m fine— _okay_ , stop giving me that look. I’ll _be_ fine, so you can go on home and freshen up.”  
  
Yamamoto hesitates, because he still really, _really_ wants to talk to Gokudera—about the Gesso being after him, about the weird transferring wound, about _them_ , but the words don’t come to him. He’s so exhausted at this point, and his back and neck hurt something fierce from sleeping in the poorly cushioned chair by Gokudera’s hospital bed. A real shower and a real bed sound like heaven to Yamamoto right about now, but. He looks directly at Gokudera, trying to gauge what he should do.  
  
The hospital bed creaks as Gokudera shifts uncomfortably under Yamamoto’s gaze.  
  
Well, maybe he should just get it over with—quickly, like pulling off an adhesive bandage. It’ll sting unpleasantly at first, but at least the deed will be done.  
  
“That wound,” Yamamoto says suddenly, eyes going to the blankets covering the injury. “You got that from me, didn’t you?”  
  
Gokudera flinches; his hand moves to cover the already-hidden injury, and the look on his face says that he’s ready to deny everything. Or he’s going to clam up and say nothing, which wouldn’t be too surprising either, with how secretive Gokudera has been of late. And maybe it’s a sign of just how tired and worn thin Yamamoto feels, but he’s suddenly feeling angry again. Gokudera’s reaction tells him everything: that Gokudera did something to him—to the both of them—without his knowledge, and _without his consent_.  
  
“Damn it, Hayato— _what did you do_?” he hisses. “Just because we’re… That doesn’t mean you have a _right_ to do something to me without telling me about it.”  
  
Gokudera won’t look him in the eye, his fists bunch in the blankets stubbornly, and it makes Yamamoto even angrier.  
  
“Hayato…”  
  
The door to the hospital room slides open and a nurse scuttles in, looking harried as she sees Yamamoto glaring at her patient.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, but I need to check his vitals,” the nurse says, eyeing Yamamoto nervously. She glances at the door and back to Yamamoto, who gets the hint.  
  
With a sigh, Yamamoto turns to leave. “When you’re ready to tell me the truth, you know where to find me,” he says.  
  
And with that, he leaves, and doesn’t look back.  
  
  
  
  
  
Part of Yamamoto feels guilty, because he hasn’t visited Gokudera in two days, not since he demanded answers out of him and came up empty. Yamamoto knows he should be there later that afternoon when Gokudera is scheduled to be released from the infirmary, but he really isn’t sure he’s ready to face Gokudera again just yet.  
  
So when two thirty rolls around, instead of waiting outside the infirmary like he knows he should, Yamamoto finds himself back at the Zen garden, trying desperately to compose his thoughts before he goes back to his apartment. He knows that being angry with Gokudera will only make him clam up more, and will only aggravate his healing process. But Yamamoto’s finding it hard to clear the anger from his mind. Gokudera is the one withholding information from _him_ , after all.  
  
But Yamamoto knows that the one who’s running away right now isn’t Gokudera—it’s _him_. This revelation is painful to think about, but he can’t deny the truth.  
  
Staring out over the garden, Yamamoto slowly feels the tension draining from his shoulders and neck, trying not to think about anything. It takes a while, but soon his mind is only filled with the pleasant, soft breeze ruffling his hair, rustling the bushes, and the chirping of birds.  
  
A twig snaps near the entrance of the garden, bringing Yamamoto’s mind back into sharp focus on the present. He glances at his watch—it’s past five now, and with a muffled curse he scrambles to his feet—but then he realizes that someone else in the garden now, too. At first, he thinks it’s Ryohei coming to lecture him again, but when he looks up to the path leading to the main gate, he freezes.  
  
It’s Gokudera, looking pale and drawn, but his hands are stuffed in his pockets in a vague attempt to look casual.  
  
“Hey,” Gokudera says, once Yamamoto’s eyes meet his.  
  
“You… you’re supposed to be resting,” Yamamoto blurts—it’s the first thing that rolls off his tongue before he can get his mostly-emptied brain to catch up to the present moment.  
  
Gokudera snorts—but it’s quickly followed by a pinched, pained expression, and Yamamoto’s protective instinct overrides his past anger. He rushes forward to put a hand under Gokudera’s elbow, intent on leading him out of the garden and back to their apartment. Gokudera nearly crumbles into Yamamoto’s supportive touch, and Yamamoto instead finds himself leading Gokudera to the nearest place to sit.  
  
“What the hell are you thinking, coming out here?” Yamamoto says (a little more harshly than he intends it to sound) once he settles Gokudera down on the step.  
  
“You weren’t there,” Gokudera says plainly. There isn’t a hint of accusation or blame in his voice, which only makes Yamamoto feel worse.  
  
Yamamoto opens his mouth to say something defensive, but Gokudera holds up a hand to quiet him.  
  
“Look, I didn’t come here to play the guilt game with you, so don’t give me that look.” Gokudera sighs, and adds, “You told me that when I’m ready to tell you the whole story, I’d know where to find you. Well, you weren’t at the apartment—Lawn-head told me I could probably find you here instead. Guess he was right.”  
  
For a moment, Yamamoto isn’t sure what to make of this—because Gokudera looks like he’s ready to actually _talk_ , and while Yamamoto should be relieved to have this out of the way, he’s a little suspicious. Gokudera rarely gives up this easily.  
  
Although, this _is_ the first time Yamamoto hasn’t hovered like a mother hen when there’s an injured Gokudera to take care of.  
  
“Sit down, dammit,” Gokudera suddenly says, exasperated. “The sun’s right by your head and I can’t see your face while I’m talking.”  
  
Yamamoto blinks, laughs sheepishly out of sheer habit, and then sits down next to Gokudera. He still doesn’t know what to say, or even if saying something now would be wise. An honest, open Gokudera isn’t something he’s used to dealing with, even after all these years of being together. He catches himself staring at Gokudera’s profile as Gokudera looks out over the garden with a blank expression.  
  
“I guess you already have a few things figured out,” Gokudera says, after a moment. He gestures vaguely to the injury in his side, which is currently hidden by a light, button-up shirt. “You asked me if I got this from you—and I never answered your question.” Turning his head, his eyes meet Yamamoto’s directly, and the resigned determination there nearly steals Yamamoto’s breath away. “Yes, Yamamoto; this is your injury.”  
  
The answer isn’t entirely unexpected, but it still feels as though someone punched him in the gut. Swallowing thickly around the bile in the back of his throat, Yamamoto asks, “H-How?”  
  
“Remember when we both got food poisoning that one time?” Gokudera asks suddenly. “Well, that wasn’t… that wasn’t food poisoning, not exactly. I had no idea that those stupid nanobots would cause such a bad physical reaction, and—”  
  
“Wait, _what_? Nanobots?”  
  
Gokudera sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it. Look, you know I’ve been spending a lot of time in my lab lately.”  
  
“I thought you were working on that universe-jumping machine—”  
  
“That’s not it, though,” Gokudera says. “You already told me you know that I’ve been working on two different projects. That machine is only one of them, and the nanobots are part of the second. When I’d get stuck on one, I’d work on the other one—and by the time I’d get stuck on the other one, I’d have a solution for the first project’s problem. That’s just how I work. The nanobots were originally supposed to be part of a weapon design; something I’d hoped could eventually be incorporated into the Special Bullet line that Reborn uses so much.”  
  
Yamamoto still isn’t quite sure where Gokudera’s going with this whole thing about the nanobots—aren’t those only in science fiction novels and mangas? Gokudera seems to sense his confusion, and takes a moment to think before he speaks again.  
  
So Gokudera tells him—from the beginning, when Gokudera saw the x-shaped scar on Tsuna’s back and decided right then that he was going to come up with a way around anything like that happening again. He tells Yamamoto about the failed experiments on Sistema C.A.I., the attempts to use the elemental flames themselves as shields, and how none of these worked. And then he tells him about a scientific journal he’d read on nanotechnology—and how it suddenly clicked.  
  
“It took a lot of tests and reworking to get the nanomachine to take to an animal’s biological system, but once it did, I knew I was on the right track,” Gokudera explains. “But it was failing in bullet form, and I couldn’t come up with any way to make it incorporate into a weapon that would get it to properly incorporate into a human’s system. Dr. Shamal… he’s an asshole, but that man’s fucking _smart_ ; he came up with the idea to turn it into an ingestible poison.”  
  
At this point, Yamamoto starts to feel ill—but he doesn’t say anything.  
  
“I had to make sure it worked before I could do that, and I had to make sure I could get both ends to work the way I wanted them to before I could rely on it as a useable weapon. And… well, after some thinking, I realized it would work defensively, too. So… so I tried it myself to make sure it wouldn’t kill me, and then…” Gokudera trails off, and isn’t looking at Yamamoto.  
  
And in a moment of clarity, it _clicks_. “That day we both had food poisoning—that… that wasn’t food poisoning, was it?”  
  
Gokudera’s looking at his hands when he shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t.”  
  
Chewing on his bottom lip, Yamamoto hesitates for a second, and then asks, “So how does it work? If I get so much as a paper cut, do you end up with it?”  
  
“Not quite like that,” Gokudera replies. “The nanomachines would drain too much of your body’s own energy if they were always running like that. They’re powered by elemental flames—it doesn’t matter which kind.”  
  
“So basically whenever we’re in a serious fight,” Yamamoto says. “Does it work both ways?”  
  
Gokudera shakes his head. “No, your nanos are different from mine—mine are receptors, while yours are transmitters.”  
  
“Is it reversible?”  
  
Gokudera looks at his hands again. “No. Not as far as I know,” he says.  
  
Yamamoto’s anger is slowly returning. “And you didn’t ask for my consent.”  
  
This time, Gokudera doesn’t even answer him.  
  
“Damn it, Hayato—you’re already shouldering enough as Tsuna’s right hand, but now _this_?” Yamamoto hisses the last word, and the way Gokudera flinches away from him almost makes him feel bad. But he doesn’t stop. “Do you not trust me to take care of myself as much as I take care of you?”  
  
“That’s not—I didn’t want—”  
  
Yamamoto cuts him off harshly. “But you _did_ , and I don’t know if I should be pissed at you for taking away my choice to protect you, or if I should be offended that you don’t think I’m capable of not getting myself killed.”  
  
“ _Takeshi_ , that isn’t how I meant it, God damn it!” Gokudera says forcefully, wincing as the effort tugs on his still-healing injury. But he takes a deep breath and continues. “You don’t understand—you’re the one person _they_ would target to get to me, and I won’t let them have you again. I refuse to let them take away my precious people just because I’ve finally come up with a few ways to protect my family!”  
  
Yamamoto blinks—this is probably the first time he’s ever heard Gokudera verbally include him as part of his “precious people.” Well, he’s always assumed as much, but… it does something to assuage his anger just to hear it brought out in the open. He knows exactly how Gokudera feels, because part of his anger stems from the same reason Gokudera is using the nanobots—the strong need to _protect_.  
  
A pained wheeze from Gokudera brings Yamamoto back to the present, and it’s just then that he sees how badly Gokudera’s hurting. He suddenly feels horrible, because Gokudera should be back at the apartment, _resting_ —not sitting out here arguing.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you beforehand, but _damn it_ , you would’ve done the same if you were in my shoes,” Gokudera says defensively, even while he’s holding on to his stomach with one arm.  
  
“Look at me, Hayato,” Yamamoto says, putting a hand carefully on Gokudera’s shoulder. “I… I’m sorry, too. That was too harsh—I do understand, really. I’m just… I just worry, you know?”  
  
Gokudera snorts, but it quickly turns into a grimace.  
  
“I’m not suicidal,” he protests.  
  
“I know,” Yamamoto agrees. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“So we’re good?” Gokudera asks, voice suddenly tight and thin-sounding.  
  
“Yeah,” Yamamoto says with a smile. The smile quickly disappears when Gokudera pales and grunts in pain. “Hey—you really shouldn’t be out here; let’s get you back to the apartment, okay?”  
  
Gokudera nods, doesn’t argue—he whimpers a little as Yamamoto helps him to his feet, and it only makes Yamamoto feel even more guilty.  
  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you come all the way out here—” Yamamoto’s saying, but Gokudera cuts him off by squeezing on his shoulder.  
  
“Save it,” he says. “Someone had to talk you down, and it was my fault you were mad.” The words are strained, tight with pain, but sincere.  
  
“I still should’ve been there—”  
  
“And been angry? Hah, no thanks,” Gokudera says. “ _Ah_ —wait, stop, _stop_ —”  
  
Yamamoto stops, his heart pounding heavily in sudden concern as he helps Gokudera sit down on the nearest bench. There’s a little bit of red appearing on Gokudera’s shirt near the site of the injury.  
  
“Shit,” Gokudera wheezes, looking down at it. “I-I think I popped a stitch.”  
  
Yamamoto hisses as he tries to get a closer look, but Gokudera presses his hand over the wound before Yamamoto gets a chance.  
  
“Stay here,” Yamamoto orders, sternly. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
Yamamoto sprints back to the infirmary—thankfully, it really isn’t _that_ far of a walk from the Zen garden—and picks up a wheelchair and the nearest nurse before he races back to where he left Gokudera on the bench.  
  
The nurse clucks disapprovingly as she examines the injury, but thankfully confirms Gokudera’s concern that it’s a popped stitch—well, three of them, actually, but who’s counting?—and insists that Gokudera head back to the infirmary to have the sutures redone and to have a doctor make sure more damage isn’t done. Gokudera protests, but at Yamamoto’s pointed stare, he quiets, and lets Yamamoto wheel him back to the infirmary.  
  
  
  
  
  
Two hours later, and a re-sutured, redressed, and properly bandaged Gokudera secured in a wheelchair, Yamamoto finally gets to wheel him back to the apartment with strict instructions not to do anything strenuous. That last word was punctuated with a very stern (and all too-knowing) look, which only makes Gokudera’s ears turn a ridiculous color of pink while Yamamoto laughs awkwardly.  
  
When they finally reach their apartment, Yamamoto tries his best to keep the “mother hen” tendencies to a minimum, but he’s very strict as far as the doctor’s orders go. Gokudera puts up an impressive display of resistance at first, but it doesn’t go very deep—he consents to nearly everything after two words of argument.  
  
Yamamoto isn’t sure if it’s because he feels bad for making Yamamoto worry, or if it’s because he’s still really in pain. He’s hoping it’s the guilt.  
  
By the time they finally settle down to sleep, Yamamoto can’t help but feel some semblance of giddy relief after the afternoon’s excitement—well, maybe _excitement_ isn’t the right word. More like a roller coaster through hell and back. But it feels good to settle down, to have Gokudera back, and to finally have some questions answered… even if those answers aren’t exactly what Yamamoto likes to hear. But Gokudera is right on one thing—had their positions been switched, Yamamoto wouldn’t have hesitated to do what it took to protect Gokudera. The decision is so obvious to him now, that he wonders why he felt so angry at Gokudera for it. Now, he just feels… well, he isn’t quite sure, but he feels a little warm at the confirmation that Gokudera really _does_ care.  
  
Yamamoto is careful as he curls up as closely as he dares to Gokudera’s side. By the way Gokudera’s breathing, Yamamoto knows he’s already asleep (probably a combination of pain killers and stress), which is a blessed relief because Gokudera really does need the rest. And judging from the grit in his eyes, he likely needs to rest as well.  
  
The last thing Yamamoto does before succumbing to sleep is resolution-making: he will do whatever he can to continue to protect Gokudera (and, by extension, himself). There’s no way he’s going to let Gesso get away with harming his precious people, either. But the thought floats away behind the dark curtain of deep rest.  
  
Tomorrow, he’ll worry about Gokudera’s decision to give him the nanomachines. He’ll let himself worry about the consequences, the potential backlash from Gesso— _tomorrow_.  
  
  
  
 _ **to be continued...**_

**Author's Note:**

> RECOMMENDED LISTENING (part 2):  
> ♪ [watercolour](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTtexOw5jtI) { pendulum }


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